Repentance
by Amvonz
Summary: The one time the Camerlengo ever questioned himself or: The true motive behind the Pope's murder. The disconnected memories of "could be", "never were" lovers. NOT Camerlengo/Pope.


A/N: This is my very first Angels and Demons fanfic. An important note: This is based on the film rather than the book, as you can tell from the Camerlengo's name. However I did change his motivation for killing the Pope back to the one he had in the novel. If you don't read this, you'll become rather confused.

This story is a bunch of small moments or memories, in a disconnected, non chronological form. Keep this in mind as you read. Please review!

* * *

Patrick McKenna was pacing down the corridors of his school, a small Catholic college in Italy. It was the last week of his sophomore year of studies. Twenty years old and he had barred himself from all the pleasures of any other young man his age. Except for one. The sun was barely breaking over the horizon as he stepped outside to enjoy a cigarette, a habit he had picked up in school.

Before he could pull out his carton, he noticed a girl just a few feet away, wrapped in a black sweater and watching the sunrise.

Patrick coughed. "Hello"

* * *

Return evil for evil to no one. Provide fine things in the sight of all men. If possible, as far as it depends upon you, be peaceable with all men. Do not avenge yourselves, beloved, but yield place to the wrath; for it is written: 'Vengeance is mine'

Patrick tries his best to believe that he hadn't commited an act of revenge, but an act of justice.

Sweat breaks over his brow as he thinks of smoky eyes and delicate hands, only serving to fuel his anger. He resumes his kneeled position and prays.

"Let anger alone and leave rage; do not show yourself heated up only to do evil."

* * *

As they leaned against the wall, made cold by the early morning winds, he offered her a cigarette which she very politely accepted. Patrick took note of her peach colored nails. They reminded him of seashells he had collected once on a beach in southern Italy when he was a mere eight years old. The child had been astounded by how God's oceans and shores had carefully buffed and sanded away at the shell, leaving only a shining jewel.

The women at the college weren't allowed to wear nailpolish.

"You're not from here, are you?" Patrick questioned, trying to be as friendly and nonchalant as possible.

"No, I'm not." The girl flashed a smile, rolling the cigarette between her forefinger and thumb.

Upon feeling the lingering question that Patrick didn't want to be so rude as to ask, she continued.

"My godfather is a Professor of Medicine here. I've come to visit him before I start my trip."

"Ah" Patrick nodded. 'I intend to take a year of medicinal studies next year."

"Only a year? I assume you're not planning on becoming a doctor, then."

"No, I'm not." Patrick agreed. "I'm actually majoring in Theology." She nodded. He had forgotten why it was he had even come outside, but his musings were stopped when she lifted the hand that held the cigarette.

"Would you um, happen to have.."

"Ah, of course." Patrick's hands fumbled in search for the lighter in his coat pocket.

She let out another smile and a quiet thank you. She flicked her thumb across the wheel, a spark of light escaping and lighting the cigarette, her seashell nails glittering in the first rays of sunlight.

* * *

"So that's it, then. You're going to run off, scared. Because your daddy tells you I'm no good for you." She spat out the last sentence. Angry, in spite of herself. She had always been prone to anger before she felt even an inkling of sadness. Still, she was crying, silently, and he just stared on from his awkward spot a few feet away, doing his best to remain stoic.

"You know that's not the case at all, Rachel" She sighed and gave a short nod. Patrick however wasn't so sure if he was telling the truth. He awkwardly mumbled the phrase that was useless in this situation "I love you."

"Yes. But you will always love God more."

Rachel gave him a sad smile and turned her face away. Patrick found himself, for once, unable to respond. He was always able to articulate himself and speak clearly, but now he was at a loss.

And so he did the thing he'd been trained to do - he uttered a phrase that intended warmth but came out with cold detachment.

"May God bless you."

Those were his parting words.

* * *

Meeting Vittoria Vetra had been too much for Patrick. Her dark, wavy hair, the all black outfit. She looked so much like Rachel the morning they had first met. Watching her scourge Silvano's journals, he felt a sense of deja vu. He saw Rachel relaxed on his couch, reading a novel intensely. Patrick found he had to turn away from Vittoria, embarrasingly enough. Instead he looked out the window, gazing at Vatican City.

* * *

Patrick wasn't sure how it had started. Perhaps with the cigarette he had offered her. Maybe it was when he'd offered Rachel a place to stay.

"I hope the guest room is comfortable enough for you."

She looked at him with warm grey eyes. "Of course it is. Thank you so much."

He began to feel uncomfortably hot under her gaze. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, casting his eyes downward. "Really, it's no trouble at all. You don't need to-"

He was cut off by the feeling of long slender fingers wrapping around his wrist. Her hand was warm.

"Thank you."

Before Patrick could even respond, she had already set her things down on the bed and was walking out of the room.

"The least I can do for you is fix you some lunch before you go to your study group this afternoon."

It wasn't really a study group that Patrick was planning to attend. He was actually going to Mass, but considering his career choice, wasn't it the same thing? Patrick didn't bother to correct her.

* * *

Patrick was laying his heart at his fathers feet. "Father, forgive me. I have descended into sin."

The wise man gave him a knowing smile, and a warm hand landed on Patrick's shoulder.

"My son, there is nothing to forgive. But we must make sure that it stays that way."

Patrick shot his mentor a look of confusion. The older man's smile began to fade.

"Patrick, you must not allow yourself to give in to the lusty desires that come with this..companionship. Break free, my son, and join the seminary now."

Patrick found himself acutely aware of the wrinkles adorning his adoptive father's face. Should he choose that life for himself? One in which he watches his face become marred by time, lonely. Condemned to marrying happy, young couples and returning to an empty home each night.

Still, his "father" had been able to make the decision and his life certainly was not without love or companionship from God.

Patrick finally nodded in agreement and his father smiles with pride.

* * *

The windows were left open, gauzy curtains fluttering in the rare breeze. The night was so

hot, it was unbearable, but neither wanted to pull away.

Fast asleep, her head had lolled onto Patrick's chest, her breath tickling his flesh. Her light tan contrasted wonderfully against his fair skin. Her hair was pulled back, but he let her hair out of it's ponytail, marvelling at how a single curl wrapped just right around his finger.

She tucked her head into the crook of his neck, mumbling something. Her own hand was trapped within his rusty brown hair.

Patrick was surprised she hadn't laughed at him, or rejected him straight away. The twenty year old virgin. Hah! So here they lay, sheets kicked at their feet, but still fully clothed because of his indecision.

Just who did he love more?

* * *

Rachel's dress was powder blue and beautiful in the Italian summer sun. She smiled absentmindedly as she lied down on the wild grass. Her slender hands touched the delicate blades beneath her. Patrick felt uneasy in his dark outfit, so out of place in the pastel scenery.

He found comfort in her black hair.

They both are surprised when their fingers intertwine as if of their own accord. Patrick thinks to himself that these moments are proof of God.

* * *

Almost every night they would smoke together on the back porch of his house. It's a nasty and filthy habit, sure, but they enjoy spending that time together. Rachel will laugh when he swears once again that he is going to quit for good (something he finally followed through after joining the seminary).

Rachel honestly is a social smoker, but at this rate, her lungs would soon fall apart.

Sometimes, Rachel would ask herself what she was doing there, on Patrick's porch in a town in Italy of no significance. She had only needed a place to sleep at night while she travelled the neighboring cities of Italy during the day, but here she was, spending her entire summer on a crush.

"I should probably leave soon." She tells him during one of their evenings on the porch, crushing a cigarette stub on the ground.

"No!" A pause. Patrick splutters a bit, red in the face. He was usually so reserved. "Why?" He asks, a tone of seriousness entering his voice.

She found herself unable to respond to such a direct question. It was becoming harder to breathe, his green eyes questioning her relentlessly. She blamed it on her smoking habit.

They ended that smoking session with their first romantic encounter. Nothing but sweet, intimate kisses - so private that they seemed to Rachel like secrets. For Patrick, they really were something to be kept hidden.

* * *

One day, Patrick returns to his small house to find Rachel in the backyard, playing a guitar she'd bought in a thrift shop and singing "Hallelujah". His entire conflict summed up perfectly into a single moment.

He turned around and quietly left, undetected, resolving to meet with his father.

* * *

He had a son! Those were the pope's offending words. Patrick raged to think that this man had denied him something wonderful, and still indulged in the sins of the flesh. A true hypocrite.

Patrick milled over these thoughts as he loaded the syringe with an overdose of Heparin. Years of loneliness had built him up to this breaking point. It is written that vengeance is in the hands of the Lord, but Patrick was far too angry to care. It stung to think that his so called father would betray him in such a way.

The Pope's death was necessary. Patrick had to kill him, for the church, for his sins. For revenge. He quickly banished the last thought from his head.

_But you were the one who agreed. You agreed to join the seminary. You agreed to end the relationship. Nobody forced you._

Patrick banished this thought as quickly as it came, instead focusing on the cold gleam of the needle.

* * *

His cough had obviously startled her, because she jumped visibly before turning to him.

"Oh, hello." She replied, obviously calmer once she'd seen where the noise had originated.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you, Miss..?"

She removed an arm from the depths of her black sweater to shake his hand. "I'm Rachel."

-----------------

Please review and point out any mistakes so that I may correct them!


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